As tired as he was, as dead-dog beat tired as he felt, riding the bike made Ferguson feel incredibly better. It was something to do, a goal. He could turn off the rumbling in his brain and just push down on the pedals, pump up the road Corrigan said would take him directly to the airstrip.
Fifteen miles. That was about an hour’s ride at a decent, moderate pace.
I’m going to do it in less, he told himself, pushing. Much less.
Less.